[Illustration]
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
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THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
THE KEY TO BETSY’S HEART
[Illustration: A FROLIC WOULD FOLLOW
_Frontispiece_]
THE KEY TO
BETSY’S HEART
BY
SARAH NOBLE IVES
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1916
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1916,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published, September, 1916.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE COMING OF BETSY 1
II. THE NEW SURROUNDINGS 10
III. THE COMING OF THE PRINCE 22
IV. BETSY MEETS VAN 36
V. VAN’S FIRST LESSONS 47
VI. BETSY’S FIRST LESSONS 62
VII. VAN GOES TO CHURCH 74
VIII. THE GREAT STORM 87
IX. MORE LESSONS 100
X. VAN’S WILD OATS 113
XI. VAN BECOMES A HERO 128
XII. THE GREAT PARADE 143
XIII. VAN IN DISGRACE 156
XIV. VAN’S BANISHMENT 171
XV. VAN’S HARD LESSONS 183
XVI. THE JOURNEY HOME 193
XVII. VAN THE RESCUER 210
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
A frolic would follow _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Most unpromising she was, at the first glance 6
She fled with him down the aisle 84
Van caught up with Piggy at the far end of the lawn 152
THE KEY TO BETSY’S HEART
CHAPTER I
THE COMING OF BETSY
[Illustration: “She needed all the heartening she could get.”]
Betsy sat staring through the window of the first hack she had ever
been in,--also it was the first she had ever seen. She was wondering,
wondering, as she rolled along up two-mile drive that lay between the
station and the Hill-Top, what would happen next. Things had moved
pretty swiftly in the past few weeks, and Betsy had been simply a
bewildered leaf floating on the whirling tide of destiny.
To begin with, her father had disappeared;--run away from the little
farm on the New Hampshire hillside. Tired of the stones and the
drudgery--tired, too, of the wife, who, through neglect, hard work
and lack of good food, had grown to be a fretful invalid--he had
disappeared like a coward, in the night, no one knew where.
There were days after that when Betsy had gone hungry, for there was
no money in the house, and but little food, and at last had come a
day when the mother had fallen weakly on the floor. Betsy had run,
frightened, down to old Mrs. Webb’s house for help, and Mrs. Webb
had told the neighbors, and they had all come from every direction,
surprised by the alarming news. It was planting season, and for some
time no one had happened to call at the little red house over in
Wixon’s Hollow, off the main road.
Then there had been a great bustling about. Betsy’s mother was put to
bed, a doctor had come, there was food in the house once more, and a
kindly neighbor took charge of affairs. But it was too late. In a few
days all was over.
But soon another leaf had been turned in Betsy’s book of life by a
letter from a distant relative, known vaguely to Betsy as “Aunt Kate
Johns.” Betsy was invited to come and stay a year with her.
Betsy had cried a little in secret over this, because it was something
unknown and consequently something fearful. But one must take what
comes,--so the poor little belongings were packed in a “carpet-bag,”
and Betsy took her first railway journey all alone. It would have been
a marvelous undertaking, but Betsy’s eyes were still blinded with the
tears of her loss.
And now here she was, and what would come next?
She had never seen “Uncle Ben,” and Aunt Kate had been simply a vision
of lovely color and soft silken draperies. Once or twice she had
whirled into the little red house, and away again. Well, after all, it
would be something new. Betsy plucked up her courage and dried her last
tear as the hack turned in at a gate.
Up a wide avenue went the hack, under stately trees and between
wonderful flower-beds and sunny reaches of grass and dandelions. The
dandelions looked homely and dear, but the prim magnificence of the
great, park-like place awed Betsy too much for other emotions. Uncle
Ben and Aunt Kate would probably be as stiff and unlovable as that
trimmed hedge over there. She braced herself for the worst.
Now they drove past a great stone building, full of winking eyes,
which were really windows peering into the sunset through a riot of
vines. That was the “Hospital,” no doubt, of which Uncle Ben was
superintendent. It looked huge and mysterious, and out of the unknown
future Betsy felt a chill of loneliness creep over her. The driver
stopped at last before a pretty brick house standing by itself in
the park. It was all nooks and gables, and around two sides of it
ran a porch delightfully shaded by honeysuckle. Betsy did not know
honeysuckle, but its sweet smell hung heavy over her, and somehow it
heartened her as she mounted the steps.
She needed all the heartening she could get, for Betsy had never before
been beyond her own New Hampshire valley. She wavered a little, and
there was a queer, wooden-y feeling in her legs as she lifted her
hand and rapped on the dark expanse of the door--she knew nothing of
doorbells or knockers, and did not even look for them.
Almost immediately the door swung open, and a trim maid said:
“Is this Miss Betsy? Come right in. Mrs. Johns is sick with a headache,
but she heard the carriage, and sent me to bring you up to her. Give me
your bag, Miss.”
Betsy gave up the carpet-bag doubtfully.
“You mustn’t bang it. I’ve got two fresh eggs in it for Aunt Kate.”
Up a broad winding stair Betsy followed the maid, and into a room all
delicate green and gold, with painted iris growing on the walls, up
from a thick carpet that was almost like the grassy lawn. From a low
couch came a soft voice.
“Come here, Betsy.”
The little figure stood stiffly before the couch,--a thin, small wisp
of a maid, with brown hair of the silky kind that never stays “put”;
the natural sallowness of her complexion was deepened by the tan of
out-of-door life; the little hands were reddened and roughened with
dishwashing and scrubbing,--for Betsy had mothered her mother ever
since she was big enough to bring in kindlings from the wood-pile.
A faded black frock, fashioned hurriedly from an old skirt of her
mother’s, made a pitiful attempt at mourning.
Most unpromising she was, at the first glance, and Aunt Kate’s heart
sank, until her eyes met the two brown ones,--so deep and soft that she
gave a start. Pools of liquid darkness they were, and out of them shone
a soul to be trusted. Aunt Kate held out two arms, lace-covered and
delicate, to enfold the small waif.
But Betsy did not accept the invitation. She stood there, crossing her
ankles, and not knowing what to do with her hands. Caresses she had
never known. In a voice shrill with the excitement of the interview,
she said:
“I’ve brought you two eggs,--they’re fresh. Speckly and Banty done ’em
for you.”
Out of her poverty the child had come with gifts! Aunt Kate’s eyes
dimmed a little, and her hand closed gently over the little red one
that hung limply at Betsy’s side.
“Did you bring them to me? I am so glad. I love fresh eggs.”
[Illustration: MOST UNPROMISING SHE WAS, AT THE FIRST GLANCE]
Betsy pointed to the maid. “She’s got my carpet-bag. Where’d you put
it?”
“In your room, Miss Betsy.”
“_My_ room? Have I got a room?”
“Show her, Treesa.”
Treesa led the way, and Betsy was soon back with an egg in each hand.
“They’re all right. I didn’t let no man nor nothin’ touch that bag
coming down. Here they are. They aren’t real cold yet, hardly. I shooed
Speckly off the nest to get this biggest one just before the stage came
for me.”
“Thank you, dear. They’re fine. This weeny one is just like a big
pearl. I hope you are going to be happy here with us.”
“I dunno. I never had much time for it.”
The sharp little nine-year-old voice had the edge of forty-five on it;
it was the echo of her mother’s fretful plaint which the child had
unconsciously picked up.
“Well, we’ll see. Run, now, and wash your hands and face, and Treesa
will give you some supper in your room.” Somehow Aunt Kate shrank from
leaving her alone with Uncle Ben this first night.
Betsy hesitated. “This room is handsomer than our parlor,--but it’s
kinder big and lonesome here.”
“It won’t seem so when you get used to it. We’re going to love you and
then you will love us and we’ll all be happy as larks. Now good-night,
little girl. You had better go right to bed after your tea. Treesa will
show you where to put your things, and to-morrow will be a new day,
Betsy dear, and then we’ll have time to get acquainted.”
Betsy walked to the door as if the interview was closed.
“Won’t you come and kiss me good-night?”
The child came slowly, as if unaccustomed to the rite, shrank a little
from the arm that stole about her, pecked the lips coldly; then, at the
soft caress of the white hand, she dropped a tiny corner of her reserve.
“Ma kissed me just afore she died.”
Then Betsy froze again, and walked out of the room.
Things passed in a whirl that evening. Whatever Betsy thought of the
dainty room, all in white, old rose and soft, warm gray, she did not
disclose to Treesa. She ate her meal from delicate china, with real
silver, and at last climbed into bed between the snowy sheets, and
straightened out the folds of her coarse, drilling nightgown for sleep.
“It’s awful grand and beautiful here,” she whispered to herself; “but
I’ll be lonesome. I wisht Ma was here, an’ I--I wisht I was back in the
Holler!”
She hid her face in the pillow when Treesa came in, that her tears
might not be seen.
“Good-night, Miss Betsy. Do you want a light left in your room?”
“No’m. I allers go to sleep in the dark,” said Betsy, bravely. She
watched between her fingers as Treesa pulled a little chain, and snap!
out went the light. At home they blew it out, and there was a smell of
kerosene or tallow afterwards. This interested Betsy so much, wondering
how it was done, that she forgot to stay awake and grieve through the
dark hours, and before she could have counted a hundred, the wings of
childish sleep were around her.
[Illustration: “She sat up and looked out of the window.”]